VI
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth
This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.
T. S. Eliot
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
the open window
The office building where I work sits nestled shoulder to shoulder with the adjacent buildings in one of Erie's older neighborhoods. Here the structures consist mostly of grand old city homes built of brick in three stories with turrets, or office buildings designed to look like grand old city homes built of brick in three stories with turrets. (There's one across the street which I absolutely love. I've always wanted a round room in my house, as a study.)
In spots the neighborhood runs on the shabby side, the decayed glory of evaporated Gilded Age wealth, the spots where the houses have undergone interior partitioning to form apartments for the rougher side of Erie society. The house next door to the office is one of these. I don't find it particularly threatening on that account; after all, I lived in exactly that kind of house in a more dangerous neighborhood in South Bend; but two elements of this edifice render it rather creepy. First is the heap of lidless antique dolls staring balefully out of a first-floor window. Second is the second-story window which is always open.
The dolls would creep me out no matter where they were located. Even if they sat in polished splendor on carefully wrought little rocking chairs at miniature tables rigged with tiny china cups and pots of tea I would run screaming from the room. For only one summer of my life in my childhood I played with a doll, and that was mostly because I enjoyed designing accessories and cutting them out of heavy paper. Before and after that summer, I had nothing to do with dolls. I preferred stuffed animals, plastic horses, plastic dinosaurs and Legos. Even the tiny dolls that accompanied my dollhouse were a family of humanoid raccoons.
I find antique dolls, with their disgusting matted hair and yellowed lace collars and faded dresses and unblinking eyes, unbearably gross. They sit there like corpses, or more like the waiting undead. Unbenownst to the humans striding around in perfect oblivion, these ancient playthings, who remember the touch of hands that now grip the arms of wheelchairs in nursing home mummification or rest in the slowed decomposition of satin-lined caskets, watch in fixed calculation for their moment -- the moment they will all rise up from their moldered cushions and windowsills and cabinets and rocking chairs and kill us all.
Even less than the dolls do I understand the people that comfortably keep them around. I'd rather have a collection of shrunken heads than antique dolls. The first floor window of the house next door contains at least a dozen of these silent unchildlike minions of darkness flung carelessly into their deathly repose staring up toward the office's second floor windows. Fortunately I can't see them from the reception area. But I always know they're there, with their fake or real human hair wiring out from their skulls in wisps, watching.
But even that hasn't disturbed my mind's quiet like the open window. Cindy told me it's been open since at least last summer. Through every kind of weather, every season, the window yawns, screenless, inviting the elements to eat away at humanity's attempts at stability and permanence. The window frame has grown warped and streaked with rot, the paint has worn away, and it gives the house a look of dispossession. Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here.
Worst of all are the sheer white curtains that hang there, blowing sometimes into, sometimes out of, the attic room. Seeing these scraps of fabric, which look older than the dolls, moving restlessly with the winter wind sends a sort of chill up the spine. I think it's the chill of betrayal. If the house sat empty and the entire dwelling sagged under the creeping weight of time, it would carry an overall air of old sorrows and desolation; but since only this window bears evidence of dilapidation, it's somehow insidious, a canker in the hedge, the traitor slipping off while everyone finishes dinner to lead in the troops of the oppressor. A window should make a dwelling more habitable -- let in light, let air in when necessary, keep air out when necessary. This one is the sheepdog ignoring the wolves closing in on the sheep.
My coworkers and I periodically assemble to look at that window and wonder who on earth would leave it open all winter. "Doesn't that make the house really cold? Who can afford to heat it? Isn't that wall almost destroyed inside?" As cold as this winter has been, you'd think whoever foots the heating bill would have noticed that there's a leak somewhere. But then, you'd also think that they would notice the deflated wading pool swampy with algae and the rusting remains of a swingset from approximately 1983 lurking in the backyard.
And yet, today Cindy noticed the miraculous: Now that winter is almost over, and after well over a year, the window is closed. The curtains still hang limp and scary on the other side of the streaked glass and rotten wood, and the room still breathes with hauntedness, but someone stopped the gap in the dam. The "brown horror" of humanity giving itself over in utter disinterest to the ravages of nature has dissipated.
Now if only someone would throw out those dolls.
In spots the neighborhood runs on the shabby side, the decayed glory of evaporated Gilded Age wealth, the spots where the houses have undergone interior partitioning to form apartments for the rougher side of Erie society. The house next door to the office is one of these. I don't find it particularly threatening on that account; after all, I lived in exactly that kind of house in a more dangerous neighborhood in South Bend; but two elements of this edifice render it rather creepy. First is the heap of lidless antique dolls staring balefully out of a first-floor window. Second is the second-story window which is always open.
The dolls would creep me out no matter where they were located. Even if they sat in polished splendor on carefully wrought little rocking chairs at miniature tables rigged with tiny china cups and pots of tea I would run screaming from the room. For only one summer of my life in my childhood I played with a doll, and that was mostly because I enjoyed designing accessories and cutting them out of heavy paper. Before and after that summer, I had nothing to do with dolls. I preferred stuffed animals, plastic horses, plastic dinosaurs and Legos. Even the tiny dolls that accompanied my dollhouse were a family of humanoid raccoons.
I find antique dolls, with their disgusting matted hair and yellowed lace collars and faded dresses and unblinking eyes, unbearably gross. They sit there like corpses, or more like the waiting undead. Unbenownst to the humans striding around in perfect oblivion, these ancient playthings, who remember the touch of hands that now grip the arms of wheelchairs in nursing home mummification or rest in the slowed decomposition of satin-lined caskets, watch in fixed calculation for their moment -- the moment they will all rise up from their moldered cushions and windowsills and cabinets and rocking chairs and kill us all.
Even less than the dolls do I understand the people that comfortably keep them around. I'd rather have a collection of shrunken heads than antique dolls. The first floor window of the house next door contains at least a dozen of these silent unchildlike minions of darkness flung carelessly into their deathly repose staring up toward the office's second floor windows. Fortunately I can't see them from the reception area. But I always know they're there, with their fake or real human hair wiring out from their skulls in wisps, watching.
But even that hasn't disturbed my mind's quiet like the open window. Cindy told me it's been open since at least last summer. Through every kind of weather, every season, the window yawns, screenless, inviting the elements to eat away at humanity's attempts at stability and permanence. The window frame has grown warped and streaked with rot, the paint has worn away, and it gives the house a look of dispossession. Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here.
Worst of all are the sheer white curtains that hang there, blowing sometimes into, sometimes out of, the attic room. Seeing these scraps of fabric, which look older than the dolls, moving restlessly with the winter wind sends a sort of chill up the spine. I think it's the chill of betrayal. If the house sat empty and the entire dwelling sagged under the creeping weight of time, it would carry an overall air of old sorrows and desolation; but since only this window bears evidence of dilapidation, it's somehow insidious, a canker in the hedge, the traitor slipping off while everyone finishes dinner to lead in the troops of the oppressor. A window should make a dwelling more habitable -- let in light, let air in when necessary, keep air out when necessary. This one is the sheepdog ignoring the wolves closing in on the sheep.
My coworkers and I periodically assemble to look at that window and wonder who on earth would leave it open all winter. "Doesn't that make the house really cold? Who can afford to heat it? Isn't that wall almost destroyed inside?" As cold as this winter has been, you'd think whoever foots the heating bill would have noticed that there's a leak somewhere. But then, you'd also think that they would notice the deflated wading pool swampy with algae and the rusting remains of a swingset from approximately 1983 lurking in the backyard.
And yet, today Cindy noticed the miraculous: Now that winter is almost over, and after well over a year, the window is closed. The curtains still hang limp and scary on the other side of the streaked glass and rotten wood, and the room still breathes with hauntedness, but someone stopped the gap in the dam. The "brown horror" of humanity giving itself over in utter disinterest to the ravages of nature has dissipated.
Now if only someone would throw out those dolls.
Monday, February 23, 2009
cheeerful little whistle
Loved the Symphony. It was also an opera, and so good I got the goosebumps. (The show was Carmina burana, by Carl Orff. The first and last movements in particular are stunning.)
What a great weekend. In addition to looking fancy and hearing good music, Dustin and I hacked around in the woods climbing mini mountains and getting muddy, which is always my idea of a good time. I can't wait for camping trips in the summer.
One of the unexpected miracles of being around Dustin is a quietness of mind I don't recall ever having experienced except in my times of staring over bodies of water (lake, ocean, creeks) alone. I told him last night that my mind is like a dark room with six radios playing at once, each set to a different station. It's always busy in my brain, and while it doesn't give me any trouble focusing, it doesn't give me a break, either. But I've noticed that when I'm with him, five of the radios quietly turn off and I'm almost fully present in the here and now, and it's so relaxed I almost don't know what to do with it.
I'm dating the awesomest guy in the world. It's great to be me.
What a great weekend. In addition to looking fancy and hearing good music, Dustin and I hacked around in the woods climbing mini mountains and getting muddy, which is always my idea of a good time. I can't wait for camping trips in the summer.
One of the unexpected miracles of being around Dustin is a quietness of mind I don't recall ever having experienced except in my times of staring over bodies of water (lake, ocean, creeks) alone. I told him last night that my mind is like a dark room with six radios playing at once, each set to a different station. It's always busy in my brain, and while it doesn't give me any trouble focusing, it doesn't give me a break, either. But I've noticed that when I'm with him, five of the radios quietly turn off and I'm almost fully present in the here and now, and it's so relaxed I almost don't know what to do with it.
I'm dating the awesomest guy in the world. It's great to be me.
Friday, February 20, 2009
today's puzzler, which has no import on actual life whatsoever
This keeps bugging me.
If someone were to invent a transporter (as in "Beam me up, Scotty!"), not for use between earth and spaceships, but from place to place on earth -- effectively replacing car, plane and train travel, or even bicycles or walking -- would there be massive collisions of people's energy? What happens to the "beam" as it travels? Does it occupy physical space? How does it get from A to B? If another "beam" going from C to D intersects the first "beam," do both beams make it to their respective destinations intact?
The only relatable event I can think of is a flashlight beam intersecting a ray of sunshine. They don't seem to interact, except perhaps to create slightly more intense heat at the points where they cross. So maybe Jill can get to the top of the hill without switching noses with Jack who's going across the hill. I mean, think about the possible consequences -- people could show up where they were going having all sorts of extra limbs, or many fewer limbs, or maybe just a heap of muscle and organs. Ew.
If that happens, wouldn't people have to "beam" themselves around like cell phone signals: be sent up to satellites and then to their Earth destinations, to avoid traffic congestion?
On the other hand, if they don't interact and people could send themselves directly from New York to Mexico City, doesn't energy expend itself somewhat in travel? So would people arrive at their destinations microscopically shorter?
Obviously it's been a long, long time since I took physics. I should go hunting through one of my old textbooks, but it's boxed up somewhere in the garage keeping its theoretical secrets from me.
If someone were to invent a transporter (as in "Beam me up, Scotty!"), not for use between earth and spaceships, but from place to place on earth -- effectively replacing car, plane and train travel, or even bicycles or walking -- would there be massive collisions of people's energy? What happens to the "beam" as it travels? Does it occupy physical space? How does it get from A to B? If another "beam" going from C to D intersects the first "beam," do both beams make it to their respective destinations intact?
The only relatable event I can think of is a flashlight beam intersecting a ray of sunshine. They don't seem to interact, except perhaps to create slightly more intense heat at the points where they cross. So maybe Jill can get to the top of the hill without switching noses with Jack who's going across the hill. I mean, think about the possible consequences -- people could show up where they were going having all sorts of extra limbs, or many fewer limbs, or maybe just a heap of muscle and organs. Ew.
If that happens, wouldn't people have to "beam" themselves around like cell phone signals: be sent up to satellites and then to their Earth destinations, to avoid traffic congestion?
On the other hand, if they don't interact and people could send themselves directly from New York to Mexico City, doesn't energy expend itself somewhat in travel? So would people arrive at their destinations microscopically shorter?
Obviously it's been a long, long time since I took physics. I should go hunting through one of my old textbooks, but it's boxed up somewhere in the garage keeping its theoretical secrets from me.
Shall I then beg Thee for a summer's day?
More snow. It's never going to stop. I woke up yesterday morning to a world re-dressed in white, icy roads, car accidents, smears of snow that always duck under the windshield wipers and keep me from seeing; today boasted winds of hurricane-type force which attempted with single-minded determination to throw my car off the road. (Plus I finally shaved my legs last night -- yeah, yeah, TMI, but men who are horrified don't know, and women who pretend to be horrified do, that I'm not alone in setting the Bic on a shelf for most of the winter. Anyway, having eliminated a nice natural layer of body heat entrapment in honor of the Symphony tomorrow, I am now freezing and wishing for an afghan. Though I freely confess that smooth skin is nicer.)
Color me bitter. This winter has been long. Sometimes I stare at my work PC's tropical desktop in the pure longing for hot weather and sunshine.
But I get to stick it to the elements in just over a week when Dustin and I escape south to Charlotte. We keep saying how we forgot the omnipresent heavy cloud cover in Western PA, and for my part, I'm starving for a little golden light. Something that isn't gray and seething with snow.
Plus, I miss the open road.
Color me bitter. This winter has been long. Sometimes I stare at my work PC's tropical desktop in the pure longing for hot weather and sunshine.
But I get to stick it to the elements in just over a week when Dustin and I escape south to Charlotte. We keep saying how we forgot the omnipresent heavy cloud cover in Western PA, and for my part, I'm starving for a little golden light. Something that isn't gray and seething with snow.
Plus, I miss the open road.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
happy
Wonderful weekend. Dustin and I lounged around watching Amadeus (excellent film -- if you haven't seen it, I recommend that you remedy that immediately), eating boeuf en daube and These Mashed Potatoes are So Creamy, hanging out, bebopping around and generally having a fantastic time.
And this week I have roses to savor (when I'm not home I have to lock them away from Simon, who has decided that his duty toward them is to eat them), a really wonderful card to read, and a mouthwatering cookbook to drool and dream and scheme over. It's the last cookbook I needed to complete my collection of most desired cuisines: Lebanese. And the recipes look so. good.
Sometime this week I must away 'ere close of day to find a pair of shoes and jewelry for the Symphonic excursion on Saturday. I can't wait. (For the excursion, that is. I don't mind shopping as much as I used to, but it's never been on my top 10 list of Things I'd Love to Do All Day.)
In other, slightly more erratic news, I keep getting sharp things under my fingernails that slice the nerve-ending-packed skin and hurt like the dickens. (What are the dickens? Why do they hurt?) Last night it was the edge of a toothbrush box that jammed itself under my middle fingernail like that was its purpose for being.
Currently I'm reading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series for the first time and adoring it. I keep laughing aloud while reading. Pure quirky joy.
I have also discovered that I love the music of Death Cab for Cutie. While, sadly, I do not own any of their albums, I have the loveliness of Pandora to feed my new obsession.
Tonight is pizza at the parents', a young and rather irreverent church-related meeting, and clean sweaters.
Life is good.
And this week I have roses to savor (when I'm not home I have to lock them away from Simon, who has decided that his duty toward them is to eat them), a really wonderful card to read, and a mouthwatering cookbook to drool and dream and scheme over. It's the last cookbook I needed to complete my collection of most desired cuisines: Lebanese. And the recipes look so. good.
Sometime this week I must away 'ere close of day to find a pair of shoes and jewelry for the Symphonic excursion on Saturday. I can't wait. (For the excursion, that is. I don't mind shopping as much as I used to, but it's never been on my top 10 list of Things I'd Love to Do All Day.)
In other, slightly more erratic news, I keep getting sharp things under my fingernails that slice the nerve-ending-packed skin and hurt like the dickens. (What are the dickens? Why do they hurt?) Last night it was the edge of a toothbrush box that jammed itself under my middle fingernail like that was its purpose for being.
Currently I'm reading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series for the first time and adoring it. I keep laughing aloud while reading. Pure quirky joy.
I have also discovered that I love the music of Death Cab for Cutie. While, sadly, I do not own any of their albums, I have the loveliness of Pandora to feed my new obsession.
Tonight is pizza at the parents', a young and rather irreverent church-related meeting, and clean sweaters.
Life is good.
Friday, February 13, 2009
misc.
As I passed an open magazine at the office this morning, I noticed the word "Calgary" in the article and thought, "That's in Alberta, right?"
I don't know the capitals for most of the states in the US. But yet I know Calgary in connection with Alberta. I also know that Saskatchewan means "river that turns back on itself," or something equivalent. I have no idea what Susquehanna means, and that meaning would be much more relevant.
Ah well.
Last night I took advantage of Linnéa's visit and made chicken tinga, a hot'n'spicy chipotle dish. In my childhood years I loathed anything that stung the tongue, but now I love it (as long as it has flavor; atomic wings, for example, don't float my boat), and attribute my increased intestinal health of the past couple of years to a diet filled with more hot peppers. (Probably it's all in my head.)
I found the dish pleasantly full of kick, whooped a couple of times, blew my nose, washed my hands and helped myself to seconds. Linnéa looked over at me and said, "Sarah, I can't feel my mouth."
I don't know the capitals for most of the states in the US. But yet I know Calgary in connection with Alberta. I also know that Saskatchewan means "river that turns back on itself," or something equivalent. I have no idea what Susquehanna means, and that meaning would be much more relevant.
Ah well.
Last night I took advantage of Linnéa's visit and made chicken tinga, a hot'n'spicy chipotle dish. In my childhood years I loathed anything that stung the tongue, but now I love it (as long as it has flavor; atomic wings, for example, don't float my boat), and attribute my increased intestinal health of the past couple of years to a diet filled with more hot peppers. (Probably it's all in my head.)
I found the dish pleasantly full of kick, whooped a couple of times, blew my nose, washed my hands and helped myself to seconds. Linnéa looked over at me and said, "Sarah, I can't feel my mouth."
Thursday, February 12, 2009
a rather blustery day
The wind today is wuthering.
Actually it sounds more like a huge baby throwing a temper tantrum against the walls. On my way to work I almost skittered into the minivan I was passing when a blast of wind hooked its fingers under the body of my car and tried to throw it sideways.
Dude, someone get this kid a rattle.
At least I didn't wake up to a world recovered in snow. Everyone is dreading it. While the past few days have been so dark as to render it "evening all afternoon" (seriously, the Cullens could have done very well in Erie if something went wrong in Forks), the temperature has hovered in the mid- to high fifties, and we're all scared to relish it, and it's making the entire city grumpy. I wanted to hit just about everyone I spoke to yesterday. (Oh, and I'm grumpy too.)
PA people are funny. Give us thirty degree weather after a long stretch in the negatives, and we're ripping off our coats and running around in T-shirts. Push the temperature up to forty or fifty and we're shrugging back into our winterwear and skulking around with one eye on the sky waiting for the snow to come back.
In other news, I finally have access to Pandora Radio at work, and I'm so in love.
Actually it sounds more like a huge baby throwing a temper tantrum against the walls. On my way to work I almost skittered into the minivan I was passing when a blast of wind hooked its fingers under the body of my car and tried to throw it sideways.
Dude, someone get this kid a rattle.
At least I didn't wake up to a world recovered in snow. Everyone is dreading it. While the past few days have been so dark as to render it "evening all afternoon" (seriously, the Cullens could have done very well in Erie if something went wrong in Forks), the temperature has hovered in the mid- to high fifties, and we're all scared to relish it, and it's making the entire city grumpy. I wanted to hit just about everyone I spoke to yesterday. (Oh, and I'm grumpy too.)
PA people are funny. Give us thirty degree weather after a long stretch in the negatives, and we're ripping off our coats and running around in T-shirts. Push the temperature up to forty or fifty and we're shrugging back into our winterwear and skulking around with one eye on the sky waiting for the snow to come back.
In other news, I finally have access to Pandora Radio at work, and I'm so in love.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
now
Every day I wake up happy. Every day I savor the gift of that waking, because this is a happiness I only had when I was small, opening my eyes to a newly fashioned summer day and rolling to my side to look eagerly out the window whose sill rested level with the top of my mattress so that I pretended I slept in the branches that touched the screen. Back then I lay still for a few moments to watch the leaves and listen to my parents talking in the driveway and smell the magic of freshly mown grass, quivering all over with the secret knowledge that I was awake and no one knew it yet and in that moment all of heaven and earth and time were mine in an infinite and possible now.
Lately I've been opening my eyes to the same feeling. More complex, perhaps, with adult demands and adult joys, but lighter and freer and higher and deeper than I've experienced in years, a brilliant awareness of the present, and of present blessings, the "morning moving over the hills."
Lately I've been opening my eyes to the same feeling. More complex, perhaps, with adult demands and adult joys, but lighter and freer and higher and deeper than I've experienced in years, a brilliant awareness of the present, and of present blessings, the "morning moving over the hills."
Friday, February 06, 2009
squee!
Dustin and I are going to the Pittsburgh Symphony in a couple of weeks!
I love the Symphony. The last (and only) time I went was sometime around 2003 for Valentine's Day with college friends -- two of them were a couple, and the other was a single gal like me. The concert and the hall itself were stunning -- there's nothing like a live orchestra -- and it was fabulous to wear a gorgeous dress and sit in red velvet seats pretending sophistication. The only fly in my ointment that night was the couple making out in front of us. I think we threw bits of our program at them.
So I'm, as I say when speaking, as opposed to writing, "totally stoked" about this event. Mom has to buy a dress for a relative's wedding coming up soon, so she and I are going shopping after work today. I'm enjoying this chance to reverse my long desert of girlie moments and go all out squealing over fabrics and baubles.
Though Dustin informed me, in a tone of disbelief, upon checking with the hall, that there isn't a dress code, and people are known to attend the Symphony, on a Saturday evening, in jeans.
Only in Western PA.
I love the Symphony. The last (and only) time I went was sometime around 2003 for Valentine's Day with college friends -- two of them were a couple, and the other was a single gal like me. The concert and the hall itself were stunning -- there's nothing like a live orchestra -- and it was fabulous to wear a gorgeous dress and sit in red velvet seats pretending sophistication. The only fly in my ointment that night was the couple making out in front of us. I think we threw bits of our program at them.
So I'm, as I say when speaking, as opposed to writing, "totally stoked" about this event. Mom has to buy a dress for a relative's wedding coming up soon, so she and I are going shopping after work today. I'm enjoying this chance to reverse my long desert of girlie moments and go all out squealing over fabrics and baubles.
Though Dustin informed me, in a tone of disbelief, upon checking with the hall, that there isn't a dress code, and people are known to attend the Symphony, on a Saturday evening, in jeans.
Only in Western PA.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
like a little child
I just had a thought.
I was thinking about the vocal nature of domestic cats, how in their feral state they only vocalize while fighting and mating, and an article I read that suggested that domestic cats make so much noise because people do, and cats try to communicate with us by "talking" as we "talk."
That thought led to another article I read stating that domestic cats, in the company of humans, basically remain in a state of arrested kittenhood their whole lives, which is what allows them to demonstrate affection, "talk," and seek the company of others. I have often thought that God's redemption of humanity does for us what human beings do for domestic cats -- frees us to be everything we can possibly be. Adult feral cats are completely solitary, vicious, suspicious and antisocial; the same could be said of adult humans left to their own devices. But cats in a state of permanent kittenhood are joyful, relaxed, playful, demanding and unafraid to demand, loving and unafraid to love, and happy.
And today I wondered if that's what it means to "receive the kingdom of God like a little child." To live in the freedom of absolute need, absolute trust, and absolute affection. To be unworried about the disparity between the giver and the receiver. To remain, day to day, in the pure abandonment of knowing that all needs are and will be cared for, and to be free to play in the simplicity of gladness. To give the only thing there is to give to the giver, which is unrestrained love -- as when a little child runs up to the father and throws her arms around his knees, flinging her head back to look up at him and smile. I was like that, once. It never bothered me that I couldn't earn my parents' provision or love or affection or kindness; that's what they were supposed to do, and I took it completely for granted, and yet I loved them as completely as I took them for granted, and both of those things formed the bedrock of my freedom and my joy in being, which I never had to think about, because it almost always was.
The simplicity of being. Extended childhood in its best sense. Maybe that's faith like a child.
I was thinking about the vocal nature of domestic cats, how in their feral state they only vocalize while fighting and mating, and an article I read that suggested that domestic cats make so much noise because people do, and cats try to communicate with us by "talking" as we "talk."
That thought led to another article I read stating that domestic cats, in the company of humans, basically remain in a state of arrested kittenhood their whole lives, which is what allows them to demonstrate affection, "talk," and seek the company of others. I have often thought that God's redemption of humanity does for us what human beings do for domestic cats -- frees us to be everything we can possibly be. Adult feral cats are completely solitary, vicious, suspicious and antisocial; the same could be said of adult humans left to their own devices. But cats in a state of permanent kittenhood are joyful, relaxed, playful, demanding and unafraid to demand, loving and unafraid to love, and happy.
And today I wondered if that's what it means to "receive the kingdom of God like a little child." To live in the freedom of absolute need, absolute trust, and absolute affection. To be unworried about the disparity between the giver and the receiver. To remain, day to day, in the pure abandonment of knowing that all needs are and will be cared for, and to be free to play in the simplicity of gladness. To give the only thing there is to give to the giver, which is unrestrained love -- as when a little child runs up to the father and throws her arms around his knees, flinging her head back to look up at him and smile. I was like that, once. It never bothered me that I couldn't earn my parents' provision or love or affection or kindness; that's what they were supposed to do, and I took it completely for granted, and yet I loved them as completely as I took them for granted, and both of those things formed the bedrock of my freedom and my joy in being, which I never had to think about, because it almost always was.
The simplicity of being. Extended childhood in its best sense. Maybe that's faith like a child.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
clean streak
I don't know what came over me yesterday, but I went on a crazy cleaning spree that lasted for hours. I did laundry, cleaned out and wiped down the fridge, vacuumed, mopped, reorganized closets and generally restored the first two rooms of the trailer to a shining orderliness.
And it felt good. Probably part of it stems from the fewer hours I'm working at my second job, since it's the slow season there, and I've grown accustomed to fifteen hours of constant motion. Yesterday when I arrived home, I made dinner (yummy leftovers of this Mexican-style dish I threw together from my steady old starter of a diced onion, cubed beef/chicken, a can of cream of mushroom soup and a can of French onion soup -- with those four ingredients as a baseline, anything is possible) and then found myself sitting on the couch staring at my cell phone and thinking, "It's only 6:30? I'm bored."
So I popped in a couple of feel-good movies (Hairspray and The Mask of Zorro) and went about in a whirlwind of delighted domesticity.
The reward? A sparkling living space, an absurdly happy cat, satisfaction with my mental health (since I can't remember the last time I actually wanted to clean, and took joy from the cleaning -- I think it was sometime back in '05), good smells in the home, and the rediscovery of my long-lost cheesecloth which I've been wanting in order to strain my homemade yogurt to thicken it properly, India-style. (Yes, I've once again begun making my own yogurt. I also have a recipe in my newest Indian cookbook for a simple homemade cheese that I'm itching to try. If I had my way in life, I would do very few things but write and stay in the house all day making weird food from scratch. My dream house is mostly a kitchen with slate floors and a state-of-the-art stereo system and many different kinds of ovens and a vast fireplace and lots and lots of windows and high ceilings and bare rafters from which to hang dried herbs and peppers and garlic and pots and pans and meat and hanging plants, and a huge basement/cellar with separate rooms for the aging cheese and the home-canned goods and the preserved lemons and the homemade sauerkraut, and a garden just outside on one side of the back lawn and an enormous bricked and walled patio on the other with the kinds of ovens and grills a person can't keep indoors -- a clay oven, a tandoor, a large brick oven, an industrial-style grill. And then of course there's all the traveling I'd have to do both as fuel for writing and to eat new foods to come back and learn how to make. Cue If I Had a Million Dollars.)
After an evening of busy be-bopping around the house, I couldn't get tired, and finally closed my eyes on midnight smiling.
Tonight I can't wait to tackle the national disaster commonly known as my car, and then roll up my sleeves to go after the bathroom and bedroom.
And it felt good. Probably part of it stems from the fewer hours I'm working at my second job, since it's the slow season there, and I've grown accustomed to fifteen hours of constant motion. Yesterday when I arrived home, I made dinner (yummy leftovers of this Mexican-style dish I threw together from my steady old starter of a diced onion, cubed beef/chicken, a can of cream of mushroom soup and a can of French onion soup -- with those four ingredients as a baseline, anything is possible) and then found myself sitting on the couch staring at my cell phone and thinking, "It's only 6:30? I'm bored."
So I popped in a couple of feel-good movies (Hairspray and The Mask of Zorro) and went about in a whirlwind of delighted domesticity.
The reward? A sparkling living space, an absurdly happy cat, satisfaction with my mental health (since I can't remember the last time I actually wanted to clean, and took joy from the cleaning -- I think it was sometime back in '05), good smells in the home, and the rediscovery of my long-lost cheesecloth which I've been wanting in order to strain my homemade yogurt to thicken it properly, India-style. (Yes, I've once again begun making my own yogurt. I also have a recipe in my newest Indian cookbook for a simple homemade cheese that I'm itching to try. If I had my way in life, I would do very few things but write and stay in the house all day making weird food from scratch. My dream house is mostly a kitchen with slate floors and a state-of-the-art stereo system and many different kinds of ovens and a vast fireplace and lots and lots of windows and high ceilings and bare rafters from which to hang dried herbs and peppers and garlic and pots and pans and meat and hanging plants, and a huge basement/cellar with separate rooms for the aging cheese and the home-canned goods and the preserved lemons and the homemade sauerkraut, and a garden just outside on one side of the back lawn and an enormous bricked and walled patio on the other with the kinds of ovens and grills a person can't keep indoors -- a clay oven, a tandoor, a large brick oven, an industrial-style grill. And then of course there's all the traveling I'd have to do both as fuel for writing and to eat new foods to come back and learn how to make. Cue If I Had a Million Dollars.)
After an evening of busy be-bopping around the house, I couldn't get tired, and finally closed my eyes on midnight smiling.
Tonight I can't wait to tackle the national disaster commonly known as my car, and then roll up my sleeves to go after the bathroom and bedroom.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
free association tidbits
I say "free association" because in the technical sense, the following sprawling thoughts aren't actually random. I don't think anything is random; what might appear as randomness to the listening subject actually has a linkage in the mind of the speaking subject.
[which reminds me of Kristeva, which reminds me of reading, which reminds me...]
I miss my books. Today my fingers itched to turn through the pages of A. S. Byatt's Little Black Book of Stories, but scratching that itch would require a long frigid hunt through piles of boxes in my parents' garage.
I might do it anyway. I've been reading some very entertaining pulp fiction, but it's like subsisting on candy when you really want a sandwich. And I really want a sandwich.
[which reminds me of the McDonald's bag still in my car that I have to throw away, which reminds me of my car, which reminds me...]
In other news, I'm once again able to drive my Henrietta! Having a CD stereo back in my car changes the face of driving entirely.
[and now my stomach just growled, which reminds me that I couldn't eat breakfast this morning which reminds me...]
After pulling down the loaf of bread I've been keeping at the office for peanut butter toast in the mornings and finding it riddled with mold, I decided that if I could have a superpower it would be reversing entropy. Not only would my food never go bad again, but I could bring back Pompeii and potentially destroy the world by resurrecting it. Which is kind of cooler than flying.
And if I couldn't reverse entropy, my second chosen superpower would be controlling water, like in The Abyss. That's basically as close to omnipotence as one can get on planet Earth. And I could deep sea dive and never, ever drown.
[which reminds me that I'm thirsty, and tired, and should get up and get more coffee to put cream and sugar in for some calories which necessitates the ending of this post, which reminds me...]
[which reminds me of Kristeva, which reminds me of reading, which reminds me...]
I miss my books. Today my fingers itched to turn through the pages of A. S. Byatt's Little Black Book of Stories, but scratching that itch would require a long frigid hunt through piles of boxes in my parents' garage.
I might do it anyway. I've been reading some very entertaining pulp fiction, but it's like subsisting on candy when you really want a sandwich. And I really want a sandwich.
[which reminds me of the McDonald's bag still in my car that I have to throw away, which reminds me of my car, which reminds me...]
In other news, I'm once again able to drive my Henrietta! Having a CD stereo back in my car changes the face of driving entirely.
[and now my stomach just growled, which reminds me that I couldn't eat breakfast this morning which reminds me...]
After pulling down the loaf of bread I've been keeping at the office for peanut butter toast in the mornings and finding it riddled with mold, I decided that if I could have a superpower it would be reversing entropy. Not only would my food never go bad again, but I could bring back Pompeii and potentially destroy the world by resurrecting it. Which is kind of cooler than flying.
And if I couldn't reverse entropy, my second chosen superpower would be controlling water, like in The Abyss. That's basically as close to omnipotence as one can get on planet Earth. And I could deep sea dive and never, ever drown.
[which reminds me that I'm thirsty, and tired, and should get up and get more coffee to put cream and sugar in for some calories which necessitates the ending of this post, which reminds me...]
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